The Five Moments Of Love
by gingerlizard91
Summary: [MacStella] Just a look at five moments in Mac and Stella's relationship. WARNING: character death and spoilers for "Officer Blue". Happy '05!


A/N: Forgive me if those two Spanish words are wrong. Yeah. Anyway, on a much more interesting note...Happy New Year, everybody! May 2005 be happy and safe, and may you consume mass amounts of egg nog and come home from your parties hiccuping.

* * *

He hears a knock at his office door. He can tell by a person's knock how confident they are. This knock was a hard rap. 

"Come in," he calls, not looking up from his paperwork.

"_Mucho trabajo_, huh?"

Her voice is as sweet as honey. It holds self-confidence and covers a powerful mind. He looks up.

"Come again?"

"A lot of work," she translates, flipping her banana curls casually.

"Oh. Right. Spanish. Who, may I ask, are you?"

"Sorry." She introduces herself. "Stella Bonasera. I hope you got my call."

He puts down the paper he's holding and rubs his forehead, trying to remember. "Stella, Stella...oh, right. Now I remember. You're applying for the vacant CSI position?"

"Yes," Stella says, with a glow on her face.

"Great," he says, with little enthusiasm. "We've been a little short-handed around here. Crime rates have been rising to the highest in the country."

"Higher than Vegas?"

"Higher than Vegas. Way higher." He stands up and pulls out a small container of the cold cases that were once sitting on the edge of his desk. He takes the one on the top, which also happens to be the fattest. He hands it to her. "Here. Your first case. Six months ago, a druggie was found clutching a stab wound in his leg about five feet from a Caucasian with six gunshot wounds in his torso. There was no gun found at the scene, and no drugs, for that matter. Have fun."

She grimaces at the photos, then shuts the folder. "Is that it?" she asks.

He's taken a bit off-guard. "What?"

She imitates his gruff voice. " 'Hi. I remember you. We're short-handed. Here's your case. Get at it.' Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?" She offers him a smile, hoping he'll give in.

Mac apologizes. "I'm sorry." He comes around in front of her and extends his hand to her. "I'm Detective Mac Taylor. Welcome to the New York City crime lab."

Stella takes his hand and shakes it vigorously. "Now that's more like it."

It takes a few seconds, but he finally smiles. It's a hidden smile, but it's there.

She grabs the case file and walks swiftly to the door. Before she reaches for the handle, however, he feels he must say something.

"Stella?"

She turns around and looks at him with big, round eyes.

"You have spirit. You'll fit right in here."

Her mouth opens a little and she awkwardly brushes hair behind her ear.

"Good luck," he finishes.

She nods and leaves, paradingdown the hall, greeting the passersby with enthusiasm.

* * *

Years later, they both stand in the locker room, on opposite sides of the bench, and they change. They had argued in his office at the beginning of shift, and both had been angered by the other over the surgery of a horse that was carrying a key piece of evidence in their case: a bullet. He had avoided killing the horse at all costs. She had caught his sensitive side and confronted him. 

As they change, they apologize. With utter sincerity. In between articles of clothing. Simply the fact that she is in the room combined with the fact that she is shedding her garments in front of him is just enough to make his head spin. It drives him to tell her this:

"You're a fine CSI, Stella."

He hopes she catches the double meaning he intends in there.

Before she leaves, and with clean clothing on, she extends her hand over the bench, just as she had extended it years ago when she first entered his office. He is hesitant at first, but he complies. A strange sense of deja vu overcomes him. He misses the days where they got along.

* * *

She sits with her head in his neck, sobbing quietly. They're sitting on a rickety bench outside an interrogation room. Inside that room, a suspect she was interrogating is being calmed after attacking her and nearly causing her death. She continues to cry as she slips her arm under his and around his waist. 

"I was so scared..." she cries, gripping him tightly.

"Shh," he whispers as he strokes her curly hair.

"He...was going to kill me..." she continues.

He shushes her again. "You're safe. I've got you."

They sit there for what seems like ages. He cradles her, his grasp never slacking, and she holds onto him tighter and tighter until she accidentally pulls his shirt loose and her nails are digging painfully into his side. But he doesn't care about him. All he cares about is her.

"Let me see," he says, gently taking her face in his hands and inspecting her. A large, purple bruise is forming just under her right eyes, and a smaller one is forming on her jawbone. Her eyes are bloodshot. Her bottom lip is quivering out of control. He touches the larger bruise. She winces and closes her eyes in pain.

"I'm sorry. It hurts," he says.

"It's-it's okay."

They share a look.

"Don't let me go," she begs, moving closer into him.

"I promise. I won't."

* * *

All the chaos of this day has led her to his two-story apartment, where they stand on his balcony, unaffected by the cold winter weather. She isn't staring at the full moon, or the bright lights of Times Square that are right outside his window. Instead, she chooses to stare straight into his eyes as he holds her face for the second time today. Only this time, he touches her for a different reason. 

After being caught in his piercing gaze, unblinking, she closes her eyes, taking in the sweet sensations of his caress. His hands move down onto her neck, and he is careful around the new bruises that have popped up. He then moves his hands onto her shoulders, pulling her to his chest. He speaks in a low tone, something she struggles to hear.

"Stella Bonasera. I've never heard a more beautiful name."

Her eyes squeeze shut tighter still.

Coaxing her, he places a hand on the back of her head, and the other around her waist.

"Open your eyes," he says.

She complies without question.

"Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would ever..." He strays off his sentence for a moment. "How do you feel?" he asks.

Finally giving in to her feelings, Stella manages to free one of her arms and touch Mac's cheek, as he had done not a minute before to her. "I feel..." she starts, moving closer, if that was possible, "I feel like...I'm in love."

That's enough reason for him. He leans in slowly, deliberately, and his eyes close, until his lips find hers. He starts in control, moving her lips over hers sensually, passionately, transferring his love for into one outstanding kiss. Then she wants to be in charge, and so she pulls him backwards, until the backs of her knees hit the patio swing and she falls back, bringing him with her.

He has leverage now. He places a hand on the seat to keep himself from crushing her, but he continues to kiss her. He feels the chilly wind pass over them, but it only adds to the excitement rushing through him.

The dam finally breaks. She gropes wildly for his belt, and once she finds it, she pulls him down onto her and wraps both of her arms around his neck. His knee rests on a clear spot, near where her foot is.

They stop suddenly, coming up for air. They both take a minute to breathe, and then he starts up again, this time leaving a trail of wet kisses down her neck. She moans in pleasure.

"Oh, Mac..."

He teases her by slowly opening the collar of her shirt.

"Mac, can we...please...take this into the bedroom?" She gasps softly.

He stops, gazes, pulls her to her feet and leads her inside.

* * *

_She looks much different now_, he thinks. The bruises she had gotten are hidden under mass amounts of make-up. She's dressed like she's about ready to hop in her car and go to work. She's still naturally beautiful, though. 

She looks much different from when he was leaning over her lifeless corpse in the morgue.

Like a recurring nightmare, the suspect who had attacked her at he place of work turned out to be stalking her. Mac remembers entering her apartment just days after their night alone at his and finding that sick bastard standing over her. He remembers running faster than he had in his life to catch the killer before he had a chance to escape. He remembers calling an ambulance and the EMTs finally pronouncing her demise.

She was too young to die. They all know it. All the fifty-five mourners that came to pay their respects to the Bonasera family and to say goodbye to a loved one.

Mac was the fifty-first person. His fellow CSIs and co-workers – Aiden, Danny, Dr. Hawkes, and Detective Flack – had made up the rest of the group at the very end. He had trouble going to kneel before her at first, unlike his colleagues, but as everyone began to depart and prepare for the funeral procession, Mac knew he had to do _something_.

And so, as he kneels and watches her, he has to fight back an onslaught of tears. He isn't one to cry, but these circumstances are very different from anything he's ever experienced. He had only cried once in his adult life: when he learned of his beloved wife's death in the 9/11 attacks. This may be his second time crying.

He continues to stare, as if she's going to wake up that very moment and just step out of the casket. He reaches out with a surprisingly steady hand and touches her cheek. He moves his hand up, up over her forehead, then down over her hair, and then the tears come. He misses the way her hazelnut curls bounced when she laughed.

Mac doesn't sob when he cries, and nor does his face contort on emotion. The tears are the only signs of his sadness as he places his hands over hers, neatly folded on her stomach. He squeezes them gently, and for a fleeting instant, he thinks he feels her squeezing back. He knows she couldn't have...but he likes to imagine.

Mac looks out the window peering sunlight down on her figure and sees that her family and friends are getting restless, so he knows he has to wrap things up. He digs into his coat pocket and pulls out a small, cream-colored envelope. On the front is her name, written in a shaky, untidy scrawl. On the back is an old-fashioned red wax seal bearing the emblem of a tulip. He knows it was her favorite flower.

Knowing these are his last moments with her, the tears well in his eyes again. He leans forward and kisses her on the cheek, and while their faces are still close, he whispers, "Goodbye, Stella."

And just like that, he stands and leaves.

The note her set with her isn't noticed by the young attendant a minute later when he comes in the close the casket...and no one but Mac and Stella know that this is what he wrote:

_My dearest Stella,_

_It's amazing how well your name fit your personality. Like a shining star, you lit up my life and the lives of the others around you. You captivated me with your beauty and your mind. I cannot begin to say how easily I fell in love with you. I only wish that everything could have lasted longer. And so, I must say goodbye to you now. I hope you receive the rest you deserve and sleep in peace. I will never forget you and the wonders you worked in my life._

_With love,_

_Mac_

Stella's parents ask Mac if he wishes to come to the burial, but Mac politely refuses. Instead, he chooses to return to the crime lab and pick through the employee records he possesses. She is one of the first to appear.

Mac doesn't stare longingly at her information. All he does is remove her picture and lay it on his desk. He closes the file and places it next to her photo.

He plans to go to a photo shop on break and get this picture of her enlarged and framed. When that's all done, he will hang the portrait in his bedroom next to the numerous pictures of him and Claire. From that moment on, she will stand out.

She was the friend who cared.


End file.
